Risk
by Paranoid Sarcasm
Summary: Draco Malfoy takes a risk and finds out the hard way that he doesn't always get what he wants. DMRW I'm not sure if I want to add to this.


**AN: I have no beta and it's one in the morning, you be the judge. (I'm not sure if I want to add to this.)**

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**_RISK_**

Through the grape vine I once heard the expression, 'Everything is sweetened by risk'. Whoever the fuck said that was full of utter shit. Risk leads to emotional leaps, which leads to change. A boatload of change… a mountain full of change. Personally, I thought I was being quite clever, doing things on impulse instead of developing a sensible notion of what the consciences could be.

Combined with that, this how I ended up here, on a bleeding bar stool waiting for my drink...

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I cannot believe he called me an arrogant prick. What does he know anyway? He's nothing but a Weasley – a sexy Weasley, but a Weasley nonetheless. Not only did he say that but he said it in front of everyone in the Order meeting. -Not that he noticed, but I'm fucking amazing. You can't simply go around calling wonderfully remarkable people arrogant pricks; it's just not done. - And now I stand in the mists of a speech which Weasley number one (the father, Arthur) has helped me put together to assure the others that, in fact, I was just a young, innocent child who was steered into darkness by evil tyranny that was my wretched father… I like the sounds of that; perhaps I should add it in…

Then Weasley just yelled the insult out, rudely, and through me off the entire thing. Should I start over? No. I must keep my composure and stop this ridiculous staring; someone's bound to notice. So I open my mouth to continue but before my words can grace their pathetic ears I'm interrupted again.

"Bloody wanker." He sneered and all eyes bounced to him and then back to me. I must remind myself that they probably don't have lives of their own and this is as exciting as things get around here.

My flesh erupts with indignity. "You know, some of us have class and wait until others are done talking before letting loose opinions." I scoffed in his general direction. I absolutely hate myself for my own feelings… it's disgraceful. "Or at least pull them aside and give them a briefing on what you think."

"Fine." He glared and pulled me out of the kitchen before he let go of my robe, my very expensive robe that shouldn't be pulled so roughly because that wrinkles and crinkles it which is a total bitch to get out. "I think you're a complete asshole that can't fight his way out a wet paper bag. I have so little respect for you it practically hurts and under no circumstances will I ever be able to trust you."

We both know everyone in the other room is listening to every word, if not leaning forward to eavesdrop better and I flush pink. "Fuck you." I glower at him bitterly.

"What's this? A Malfoy at a loss for words?" He asked mockingly.

I take a deep, calming breath and look at him in a cool domineer. "If it isn't a Weasley with too much to say. How unusual. It's not like you lot to talk before you think, is it? I mean, I've never heard of a Weasley being tactless." As the norm, I had a defiant air of flippantness.

"Yeah? Ever heard of a Malfoy with a fist in his face?" His cheeks were burning and his chest was rising and falling rapidly – I had to have him.

"No." I didn't add more and he stood waiting for me to carry on. But I don't and it leaves him with loose footing. We just stand there with nothing more to say and yet so much on the end of our tongues – at least, that's how it was for me.

Unexpectedly he moved forward so we were mere inches a part. "If I find out this was some sick way to aid He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I'll kill you myself." Ah, so cliché, so passionate, so… Ronald Weasley.

I grabbed the front of his robes, which are worth dirt next to mine, and pressed our lips together forcefully. It wasn't how I pictured it, it was rough and fairly one sided (completely one sided). He wasn't returning it. Bloody fucking hell this is extremely awkward. Maybe if I just --- no, that doesn't seem to make him want to join.

As we (I) break apart (from him) I note that his eyes are wide and he seems to be frozen.

Fuck.

It's fine. Act like it didn't happen, I'm proud and I don't have to make excuses for any of my actions. But the way he's looking at me makes me feel exceedingly exposed and I have to think of something.

"It's called the kiss of death. You ten seconds left to live." I murmured to him and watch the colour drain from his face and I swiftly make my way out of the house only to disappear with a single 'pop'. Hopefully the Three Broomsticks is still open and I can order a tall Fire Whiskey to drown myself in. I can't go back to them now; I'll just fade away for a while.

I'm sure one day I'll return and face my aged gamble, but until then I'll keep quiet.


End file.
